


Imagine Loki #6423497

by Tomstinkerbell



Category: Loki (Marvel) - Fandom, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Tom Hiddleston Fandom
Genre: Control, D/s although not explicitly stated, Dom Loki, Dominant Loki, F/M, Loki loses control, Sleeping with a God, power
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-12-04 16:28:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11559048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tomstinkerbell/pseuds/Tomstinkerbell
Summary: I hate writing summaries.





	Imagine Loki #6423497

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't posted in a while because life, and I'm sorry.
> 
> I'm especially sorry that I haven't responded to those of you who have left lovely comments on my work in my absence. Please don't think that meant that I didn't appreciate that you took the effort to do so. I just . . . wasn't in a place where I could respond, but I hope to rectify that in the near future. I owe a heartfelt thank you to all of you, and everyone else here who has been kind enough to comment.
> 
> I might well even get to Woki, eventually.
> 
> This is something stoopid, as usual. Not particularly explicit, just something that was buzzing around in my otherwise empty head.

Imagine you’ve been dating Loki for a year or so, and the sex has been the best you’ve ever had – or ever expect to have once it draws to what you see as its inevitable, undoubtedly messy conclusion – in your life. He’s constantly willing and, day-um, is he able - almost solely concentrated on you and your pleasure. He’s motivated, innovative and he’s a fast learner. He never repeats a move that you aren’t enthusiastic about, and the result is frighteningly close to deadly.

But what a way to go!

Loki’s being coerced into going back to Asgard, which he desperately doesn’t want to do, so he was depressed and angry before he left – although never towards you. Gone perhaps two weeks, he arrives back in your apartment, suddenly, in the middle of the night, while you’re on your way back to bed from going to the bathroom.

You actually run head-on into him, and although he might not be as broad as his brother, it’s still like running into a brick shithouse – it knocks you back a bit on your heels, causing his hand to shoot out in the blink of an eye to grab your arm and steady you.

And you quickly realize, as you stand there looking at him - and he stares imperiously back - that he is utterly blottoed. On what, you don’t know, but from his breath you suspect some kind of Asgardian ale or some such thing. 

And it’s not that he bobs and weaves or slurs his words or anything – he actually hasn’t said anything to you. It’s more a feeling you have about him that you don’t doubt the veracity of.

Then that “I am a God” expression morphs into a look that you’re even more familiar with – one that you recognize and respond to in kind, deep within you – a hungry, not to be denied look that was nearly as potent as his touch – just before he lifts you bodily and drops you onto the bed. You’re not at all surprised that the soft shirt you had been sleeping in - the one of his undershirts that you’ve procured from him on the sly because it smells like him and you find it comforting to be wrapped up in when he’s gone, more so than you want to admit – disappears as you fall, and you’re thoroughly grateful he was too shitfaced to make the humililating discovery of whose it was, because he’s usually such a hawkeye around you, noticing everything about you, and you weren’t really ready for him to uncover that particular weakness of yours just yet. 

Or, like, ever.

As your now bare butt and back hit the mattress, he bears down on you with a truly evil look in his eye . . . 

 

The next morning, you realize as you’re showering and he’s still sleeping it off, just how carefully controlled he’s always been with you in comparison to last night. You don’t think you knew – or perhaps you just chose not to think about it – how strong he really was, just how insatiable he could be . . . how demanding . . . and almost frighteningly freaky he could get.

He’d been holding himself back quite considerably, and you wonder why.

Just then, the shower curtain is pulled aside and Loki joins you, making the already tiny space feel instantly four sizes too small, as usual – leaving you no place where you could really get away from him at all - but this time it was even more glaringly apparent, because you know more of what he’s capable of - not that you’re afraid of him, exactly . . .

You’re just almost uncomfortably aware of him and his potential, much as you had been when you’d first gotten together. It’s not fear, it’s nervousness at being so close to all that pure, unadulterated power.

Suddenly, you feel his fingertips – feather-light – on certain spots on your back and sides and bottom, and then he’s turning you towards him, watching as he catalogues with those amazingly delicate touches – especially in contrast to last night - all of the bruises he’s left on your body.

And when he’s done, his eyes find yours. They’re a bit bleary, but surprisingly sentient at the same time.

A hard arm wraps around your waist as he pulls you to him, whispering, “I know I should say that I’m sorry for marking you as I did last night, but I can’t, because I’m so proud to see you wearing them.” He licks and nibbles the spot just below your earlobe, growling, “You were magnificent last night, my beautiful darling.”

With that, he lifts you until he hooks himself into you, slowly, eyes locked on each other’s, yours drifting shut occasionally as he forces you to accept his potent presence within you, stopping to stand stock still only at the very end, just before he’s fully seated, when you gasp - and not in pleasure.

“Sorry,” you breathe heavily, blushing. “I’m a bit worse for the wear this morning.”

“Shall I stop?” he asks, voice full of concern, although he makes no move to withdraw.

In answer, you wrap your arms and legs more firmly around him, using the leverage that that affords you to sink completely down onto him in one motion, making him throw his head back and ripping a groan from the back of his throat that echoes within the walls of that small chamber and makes you feel as if you won the world.

Later, when you’re on the bed together, you shiver a bit - even though he’s utterly surrounding you with his warmth – yawning tiredly, watching with interest as he raises his hand and a shirt – that you instantly recognize as his, although it’s green rather than the black like the one you were wearing last night – appears in his hand. He offers it to you, saying, with a wry smile, “Would you like another of mine to wear to sleep in? I can assure you that I wore this all day yesterday, and I was fighting with Thor, so it’s probably quite fraught with my scent.”

You punch him on the chest – hurting your hand as you always do when you smack him and garnering no reaction from him whatsoever, your face scarlet with embarrassment. You should have known better than to think you could tell what he paid attention to, even when he was polluted.

But that doesn’t stop you from reaching for the shirt . . .


End file.
